


The Facility

by KitchyKitty



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Confinement, Gen, Isolation, Magnet Bondage, Non-Consensual Tickling, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 09:48:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14566398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitchyKitty/pseuds/KitchyKitty
Summary: Sans finds himself to be a prisoner with a regularly scheduled torture routine.





	The Facility

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yoshachu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoshachu/gifts).



> This came about in reference to something (that's not posted yet) in Ticklish Shenanigans — which was actually a reference to another, unrelated RP.

For most people, this situation would be a horrendous, unthinkable nightmare, but for Sans, it was an unexpected dream.

Well, it didn’t really start out that way, but … he didn’t really like to think about the beginning. Back before he realized he’d been thrown into his ultimate fantasy.

Because … _this couldn’t be real right?_

Somewhat reluctantly, Sans opened his sockets. It wouldn’t have hurt to have imagined his captive cell even just the slightest bit bigger, but now that he’d counted the steps it took to cross, and mentally measured the dimensions, it seemed stuck this way.

But even if it was a little claustrophobic, it wasn’t an unpleasant prison. An entire fourth of the floor was taken up by a cozy bed, the sheets always clean and warm as if they’d just come from the dryer. A nightstand stood right beside it with one of his two light sources: a strange lamp shaped like a rectangular pillar. Though it had no shade, the light wasn’t overly harsh like some bare-bulb, and he could adjust it to be bright or dim as he liked.

On the first day, he’d completely ignored the book on the nightstand — well, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d picked it up and quickly flipped through the pages, but it took probably around half of a week before he actually settled himself enough to read it during his breaks, if only to avoid going stir crazy. Once he’d finished it, he practically lamented not taking an even more painstaking pace, resigning himself to try to do so on the second read-through as he placed the bookmark he’d found in the drawer on top of the cover. But, the next time he was taken and returned to his cell, a new book was waiting in its place.

He’d gone through six books now, and was halfway through the seventh, but he didn’t feel like reading at the moment. As if to confirm that notion, he rolled on his side, sticking out a hand to dim the lamp and shut it off.

The stark, teal glow of his room’s second, much more permanent, light source saved the cell from falling into complete blackness. The numbers of his digital clock above the door never turned off, and there was no access available to him to even mess with it. This clock, however, didn’t tell the time, instead it always counted down — even down to the millisecond. Right now it told him he had less than an hour. And when those numbers reached zero….

Sans’s grin sharpened, a thrill of what was most decidedly excitement trailing up his spine as his pupils shivered in his sockets.

Waiting was the worst, especially when the countdown was as close as this. He couldn’t wait…. _He couldn’t wait…._

At zero, not even a millisecond before or after, _they_ would come for him as they always did.

Hugging himself, he shivered, blinking up at the clock every so often as his anticipation painfully grew, until finally—

00:00:00:00

With a near-silent _woosh_ , the door slid open.

Sans scooted off the bed, his bare, bony soles almost sinking into the soft carpet, arms hanging at his sides. He missed pockets, but neither the white cotton shirt nor matching sweatpants he’d been provided offered a resting place for his hands.

Without hesitation, he trotted out into the hall where two gangling droids waited, stepping between them. “hey, hairy! legs! i’ve got a good one for ya this time.”

Plated with overly-shiny chrome, neither of the machines fit his first moniker, though both were plenty leggy, almost resembling spiders, not only in looks but movements as well. Both were identical, save for the score of thin scratches ‘Hairy’ bore across the hydraulic components of its limbs, courtesy of his own bony fingertips.

“why didn’t the skeleton cross the road? …‘cause he was lacking the guts! eh? … …heh, must’a heard that one before too, huh? i dunno, never get tired of the classics myself.”

With a shrug, he lifted his arms, sleeves tumbling back to reveal his wrists, each bearing a nickel-coated cuff, polished to a silvery sheen. Both sported interior padding of some gel-like substance that snugly hugged the bone, protecting it from any chafing the metal would otherwise cause. ‘Hairy’ and ‘Legs’ likewise raised an appendage each, and with a _snap_ , the cuffs magnetically latched to the silent escorts.

But it wasn’t a big deal that they were hauling him off to a fresh session of torture. Because none of this was actually real. He could just wake up any time he wanted and get back to his life with his brother and his friends. Like now, if he really wanted. _Now would be good…. Now would be—_

A new door opened, and as he was carried inside, Sans was hit with a strange sensation. It normally took the intense climate of Hotland for him to notice any temperature, and Surface weather always fell short of a boiling volcano.

The air in front of him shimmered like ocean waves, warmth seeping into his bones, making him pleasantly drowsy. Unlike Papyrus, he rather enjoyed what he could perceive in the upper ranges of degrees.

Scuttling up to a table in the center of the room, the bots quickly shucked off his outer garments, only boxers remaining in the seemingly standard white. But it was okay. This was okay; he’d never spotted any cameras in this place, so it had to be okay. It just was further proof this was his own fantasy that he could escape from at any time because who would set up this specialized hell for him and then _not watch?_

He was lowered and placed on his back onto a large, horizontal chair, his wrist cuffs snapping magnetically into place above his head despite the thick padding that kept him from feeling the metal beneath. Sans easily entertained the thought that only an overly cartoony, evil dentist who delighted in traumatizing kids would be proud to own a chair like this — even half wishing it were true. At least then he could have an excuse to spout teeth puns to his SOUL’s content. At least he’d have a _face_ to connect his suffering to.

At least he’d have someone to plead with.

Hardly having noticed, his ankles had been fitted into the chair’s customized stocks, toes tied back, and now ‘Hairy’ and ‘Legs’ were taking their leave, the door shutting and sealing his fate.

Mechanized clinks suddenly erupted from beneath him, a myriad of tools on automated cables emerged from hidden compartments, rising and hovering above his outstretched form. 

Stars, there were so many brushes today.

While the majority remained eerily still, the larger of the scrub brushes at his feet darted in, the bristles lining up against his soles and starting to slide.

Sans jumped with a strangled yelp – not because it tickled like heck, as usual. Something dense and _cold_ was dribbling from his toes, the shock of the normally unnoticeable chill freezing up his thoughts. It took a moment to realize the brush itself was coated in the stuff, slicking up even the coarsest bone of his heels. 

“gkkaaahaa—! hh-hnn—! aahahaaa! haahahaaaa!” _This isn’t real._ He tugged harshly on his wrists, breaths short and tremoring between his coerced laughter. _I like tickling — love it, I love it—!_ The oil had worked itself in now, leaving no abrasion for friction to clash with. _I can handle a fantasy_.

Having fulfilled its duty, the scrub brush withdrew surprisingly quickly to make room for a bristly roller. It planted itself squarely in the middle of each sole, twirling an endless barrage of soft, prickly fuzz against the lubricated bone. Tinier, round brushes whirred to spinning life, pressing into the stem of each immobile toe on all sides, sandwiching them in buzzing anguish.

His feet had been thoroughly explored in a previous session — as had almost every other prominent part of his body, each getting an exploratory turn before recent sessions turned more intense. And while not the most ticklish of his worst spots, and usually more bearable to boot, they were certainly still high on the scale of sensitivity. Still capable of driving him to absolute hysterics without the need to artificially heighten the effect.

He didn’t have the willpower not to screech. Not that it mattered, really. He’d given up completely on trying to fight his vocalizations. Who was there to hear? And at least it helped in the smallest of ways; even expressing a modicum of his suffering peeled away at least a sliver of frustration.

“haaaaahaaaa _aaaaiiiee_ aaaa _aaaa!_ aaaahahaa! haaaaaahahahaaa! _gaaa_ eeeh _eeeaaa_ haaaa!” Brushes were awful on their own, but the more mechanical-oriented kind often came with the added nuisance of vibration that burrowed deeply into his marrow, reaching pseudo-nerves that were normally inaccessible. And now his phalanges were absolutely flooded with harrowing micro-tremors. “ohho staaaaahaaaiii _eeeeheee—!_ …eeeheeaahaaa _aaa!_ ” Sockets squeezed shut, he thrashed his head, fingers contorted when they weren’t uselessly grasping.

And then everything got overwhelmingly worse.

Silky strands of fan-shaped paint brushes dragged delicately up from the base of his ribs and along the curvature of the cage, spreading the unbearable sensation in relentless, billowy waves. Even worse, more round, rotary brushes snuck under his arms, to torture the unbelievably ticklish ends of his humerus bones.

It was all too much. All too mind-consumingly ticklish.

Which was precisely what tipped Sans into the state he sought most.

There was an instant change in the captive skeleton’s demeanor, his frightened tension draining, replaced by joyful writhing, voice soaring to squeaky heights. Because Sans really _did_ love tickling, that fact had never been part of his own self-deception in this place. In the right hands, tickling often made him happy. Sometimes it even turned him on. 

And so he did his best to game the system, attempting to keep a little corner of his sanity tucked away in the hopes to endure the unforeseeable length of his stay in this peculiar prison. If he could just keep up the illusion strongly enough that this was a hell of his own making, he could still reach that delectable headspace where torture blurred into bliss.

The sudden addition of silvertip shave brushes coasting along each side of his spine was welcomed with a thrilled squeal, and he allowed himself to be dizzied by the staggering amount of sensations, all distinctly discernable and yet still compounding together somewhere in the middle of his scrambled magical nervous system as pure ticklishness.

Unlike in his room, there was no timer here to give any sort of indication how long he’d have to endure, and most of the time he didn’t have the mind to even try to guess. The day they’d solely explored his hands was his best estimate to go off of at what approximated to two hours with his distracted counting, but he couldn’t be sure every session was exactly the same as moments of duress tended to feel painfully longer than was fair.

Even in his cloudy haze, time was stingy, like a bottlenecked hourglass only allowing its sand to flow grain by grain. The sauna-like heat slowly roasted his bones, especially where the oil had been applied, increasing the intensity of every touch until he was pushed over the brink of frenzy, drooping to exhaustion.

And finally, it all stopped, the torture tools retracting and pulling back into their compartments as if they’d never been there. Though, of course, they very much had been, as proved by the tingles that stayed behind to harass him.

Sans kept his sockets closed as he came down from the strangely ecstatic high, his true emotions from the ordeal churning in his core, threatening to break out at a moment’s notice. This was surely the farthest he’d ever been pushed by these machines, but he’d still made it. _One more victory. Hurray…._

No longer than a minute later, the only two things he could pretend to count as companions came to collect him, carrying his limply hanging frame between them.

“hh-hey…. y’know, hff, what’d be nice…? a big, juicy h-hotdog. h-hh, yeah … w’th … with all the cond’ments. hmff… relish … mustard … sauerkraut, n’ ketchup…. h-heavy on the ketchup.”

Rudely unacknowledging as ever, ‘Hairy’ and ‘Legs’ took him promptly back to his cell, setting him on the bed and leaving quite unceremoniously.

Sans knew a fresh change of clothes was waiting for him in the drawer, but he was content to lay there in willing spread-eagle for the time being, panting hungrily for fuller breaths.

After a full ten minutes, Sans slowly pushed himself to a sit, sinking back into his down-feather stuffed pillow. Raising a hand, he idly thumbed at the dried tear tracks along his cheeks, soothing away the stretched feeling that the residue left behind. At least the heated room had quickly boiled away his tears and sweat before the beaded fluids had too much chance to irritatingly trickle and add to his torment.

His eyelights flicked up to glance above his door — not that he really wanted to see, but he had to prepare himself.

11:48:06:32

Not too bad. Enough time to build up the lie in his head again at least. And considering the more rigorous routines he was being put through, every moment counted.

Dinner was always a good place to start for that. Post-session meals were unfailingly placed on the shelf adjacent to the door while he was out; a fresh entrée, bottled water, and a packaged snack to ward away hunger pangs through the remaining hours.

Swinging his legs to the edge of the bed, he slipped off onto the floor. And instantly regretted it. Air hissed through his teeth in a sharp squeak as deeply stimulated nerves flared in a ticklish sting at the pressure against his sensitized soles, the strands of shaggy carpeting cuddling irritatingly between his toes. Grimacing, he pushed forward with careful, wide strides until he reached the shelf.

On it sat a rather large, plastic bowl filled with a colorful salad, interspersed melting ice chips indicating it was still nicely chilled. The fork he was given was of lightweight plastic, strong enough to eat with, but nowhere near sharp enough to hurt himself, even if he’d wanted to. Knives were never provided, all food pre-cut for him if it were warranted. His water bottle was refilled as normal, of course. And — _sweet!_ — an entire box of graham crackers to save for later.

Leaving the box, he painstakingly traveled back to his bed with salad and water in hands, savoringly filling up on mixed greens, chickpeas, black beans, and a whole rainbow of peppers. Normally, he preferred hot food, but this was actually a nice cool down from his trip to the previous room.

And really, he told himself, what captor would be that thoughtful? _Surely, none_. Little comforts didn’t belong in a prison meant to break him. _How could this be real?_

00:05:04:75

Nearly half a day of constructing a mental maze built on a foundation of cynical assurances and half-baked lies, all trepidation was rerouted to trembling anticipation as the timer’s final minutes wound down. With a four hour nap and several chapters in his book littered with cracker crumbs, there no doubt was he was refreshed enough to handle whatever he faced next.

00:00:00:00

He offered his guards a riddle this time. They didn’t seem to be in the mood.

It was a more or less normal room he was taken to this time, save for it was empty besides a horizontal metal cylinder in the middle of it.

“what’s that all about, huh? i don’t get a chair this time?” Was it a bad thing he’d been getting used to his cozier restraints? “w-woah, easy! gh-hh!”

Vision spinning as the spider-like legs flipped him facedown, a couple clicks sounded and a soft pressure engulfed his ankles. A squeezing sensation on his SOUL ripped a gasp from him. Crud, more of those magic-inhibiting cuffs, and it seemed like the effect had compounded, every natural function that he normally took for granted working sluggishly as if passing through a sieve. “h- _hhnn—!_ …was‘at … really n-necessary…?” For a startling moment, everything went numb, but slowly his senses crawled back to him.

While he wheezed and limply waited for his internal magic flow to rebalance itself, ‘Hairy’ and ‘Legs’ draped him over the cylinder, maneuvering the cuffs until his arms and legs were splayed around the curves. If he’d ever had any inclination to hug a barrel, this is what he imagined it must feel like.

Stars, though, he despised this position already. He doubted he was going to get treated to the pleasanter teasing of backbone tickles when there were so many hot spots on his upper back. But it was fine. Just another test of his own will, right?

When the door closed, something started whirring behind him. Craning his head to glance back, there didn’t seem to be anything for several seconds, but then a long, thin rod tipped with pincers rose up, stretching out toward him until it reached his nape. With calculated care, it gripped his spine, sliding down with an occasional squeeze.

Closing his eyes tight, Sans fidgeted, hissing squeaks, the entire length of his spine acting like a cable for a low-level current of tickle-tricity to pass through, though he knew that wasn’t really the case. Still, it was bearable enough.

That was, until the singular most unthinkably awful thing to happen turned everything completely around.

The pincer didn’t stop at the base of his spine. Instead, it pulled and released, his boxers abruptly snapping a little lower against his hips, baring one appendage Sans had assumed was safe from exposure until that moment. Amongst his other odd proportions, his tailbone was comparatively longer than a human’s, and Sans had always found it absolutely intolerable to be touched.

Fingers of ice gripped his already exasperated core, sockets flying open, his illusion of willingness cracking. “h-hey, wait…! _n-no_ …!” Because even in his most extreme of fantasies, he’d never put himself through tail torture. Even mere handling from a gentle, friendly hand was too much. “nono, please, no!”

_If he really could stop this, he would…! Don’t do this…! Don’t—_

Reality was a bitter pill to swallow.

In a vice-like pinch at the tip, his tail was vertically straightened, taut and vulnerable.

“ _hnngg—!_ please, _any_ where else…!”

More whirring, and now rustling. Like a whisper, the soft edge of a plume breezed up his worst spot, and, even with the magnetic power holding him in place, Sans’s frame jolted violently as if he’d been outright whacked.

“h-h _hkk! aah_ aa, st-stars! nnhnhkk—!” Whimpers of fright plagued every exhale. And as the plume persisted in exploratory caresses, Sans had to come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t salvage the shattered fragments of his delusions. The defensive mind game had run its course and he could no longer smother the terror of what was happening to him — what had _been_ happening for conceivably months.

“haaaa _aaahaa!_ gghaahaaa—aa _aiieee!_ stop! staahaaaap naahaa! please! aahahaa! whyhee are you d-doing th-thihis t’ me!? _why!?_ aaahahaahaa _aaaaa!_ ” A few more feathers joined the first, fluffing and swirling from base to tip until not a centimeter was left untickled at once and the rest of his breath was spent on a humiliating shriek. But he couldn’t help it; airy and light, the teasing stimulus seized him in unbearable, forced mirth, and he quickly dissolved into a frenzy of panicked giggled. “aaaaeeeehehee! _aaiii_ eee! eeheheee! heeh _eeaaaaa!_ n-naaiiieehehee! kkh! _haaaa_ hahaha! heehee- _kkh—!_ ”

Likewise his body reacted in blind panic, jerking and tugging to no avail, the afflicted appendage trembling and twitching as it tried to escape the steady grasp that held it far too still, and he was obliged to endure every last lick of the soft torture tools.

Minutes dawdled by, and still, it was only feathers on his tail. Skating up and down, methodically, maddeningly. No other place was touched to buy him even a momentary distraction from that one, excruciatingly sensitive place. “ _heehee!_ ple-pleeheeease! gehet off! _getoff!_ aaaaahaa! nhnn—aahaaeehee!” Was there even anyone to hear him? Did they care that he was begging? Everything he’d seen in this facility ran like mechanized clockwork, offering little to no hope of reaching out to his distant captors. “get me ahaa- _out!_ plehehe _eeeee_ ase, pleasepleeh _eeze!_ aaaheeehahaaaa!”

But no mercy was given. It just wouldn’t stop no matter how badly he needed it to. A low burn settled in his chest until he burst into a hysterical sob, tears spilling from his sockets and splashing against the metal he’d been stuck to. He _hated_ this. If he could permanently amputate his tailbone just to _stop_ the sensation he would!

The tickling didn’t stop when he ran out of energy to beg. It didn’t slow as his agonized laughter grew scratchy and hoarse. Only until his crying overtook his giggles and his mind began to dim toward an unconscious oblivion did the feathers finally pull away.

For the first time, when the bots came to retrieve him, Sans kept as quiet as they.

He couldn’t even recognize the mercy of being laid prostrate on his bed back in his cell. Turning his face into the pillow, his shoulders heaved, fright rolling though him in nauseating waves, stress and frustration mounting at an alarming rate. Every emotion he’d suppressed for so long suddenly broke free in a tumultuous flood.

In a burst of helpless rage, Sans propelled himself from the bed onto his feet, adrenaline dulling the worst of the aftermath to a mere tingling itch. His hands were on the sheets before he’d given it thought, ripping them from the mattress. He grabbed the pillow next, growling and fumbling until he found the seam and split it wide open, flinging it away and showering the room in goose down.

But it wasn’t enough.

Stalking toward the shelf he picked up the bowl — cubed vegetables in a steaming beef broth — spinning around and hurling it toward the opposite wall, the dish bouncing off with a clatter as stew stained starkly against the pristine white.

The nightstand became his next hapless victim, drawers pulled clear out with their contents scattered. Even the book didn’t escape his wrath, torn pages mingling with feathers.

It took a few throws before his steadfast lamp even flickered, but finally, after enough abuse, something broke inside and the cell was plummeted into darkness.

Well, as close to darkness as the ever-ticking numbers would allow.

11:15:38:62

The anger drained away just as quickly as it had come. Collapsing to his knees, and then to his side, Sans curled up in a tiny shivering ball, his eyelights snuffed out, tears trickling to the floor. Emptiness threatened to swallow him whole. He was so lonely. And so tired.

Hours passed, and Sans hadn’t moved. None of his thoughts were soothing or kind, so he’d forced them away. He couldn’t even be certain if he’d dozed, everything was just so … blank.

06:30:58:19

Sans sat up. The simple action was almost more exhausting than his previous ordeal, and his skull lolled forward, a heavy sigh tumbling away. Fighting against the stiffness that had settled in his bones, he listlessly struggled to rise, head still hanging as he trudged to the food shelf. At least he’d skipped over the bag of pretzels and water during his tantrum.

Grabbing one in each hand, he slid back down to the ground, popping open the package and mindlessly munching, taking sparing sips of water to wash the salt away.

01:57:16:34

Every few sessions, instead of going straight back to his cell, he’d be taken to a shower room where he could bathe to his SOUL’s content. It cut into his other ‘free’ time of course, but he couldn’t deny it was worth it. He wished he could take one now. Just to get away from these particular four walls, even for a moment. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to get one after his next scheduled torture. He wanted out. Needed _out_ …. 

00:00:00:00

_Whoosh_.

The bots had to enter the room this time, easily prying him out of the heap of blankets he’d buried himself under. Sans kept his silence. After all, machines didn’t have the capacity to appreciate puns.

Just another chair this time, thank the stars. But his escorts didn’t take him to it right away. The scratched bot held onto him tight while the other grabbed his arms stretching them out and pressing against his palms.

Whimpering softly at the new, odd behavior, Sans watched in morbid curiosity as a bottle of bright green liquid and syringe were produced from the droid’s central compartment.

_Oh no oh no, what was that?_

“d-don’t…. don’t….” Struggling didn’t do any good, arms held too still by powerful clutches and magnetism.

He flinched as the needle descended, but instead of pricking bone, it slid into the gel-like substance of his left wrist cuff, the plunger pushing all the way until the inner padding glowed green. The same process repeated with the right cuff. In only a few moments, ripples of soothing energy massaged into the marrow of his wrists, spreading faintly through his system. “m-mm….” Though it felt rather nice and relaxing, Sans couldn’t help harboring a healthy level of suspicion, perturbed by the idea that he might have just been drugged. _What was it for?_

Carried like a ragdoll, he was flopped over onto the chair, and — much to Sans’s horror — latched into it the _wrong way_.

No, no! He couldn’t handle face down again. He couldn’t have his tail touched _again!_ Whining in absolute dread, he squirmed, turning his head to try and keep an eye on what was happening behind him. And that’s when a silky blindfold blocked out his vision.

“h-hnn..? mnn…! hh-hmn…. wh-why? what do you want from me…? just … jus’ tell me, please…?”

Something lifted his shorts and pulled out his tailbone.

A sob wrenched out from deep with his chest, despair clouding his SOUL. A thin cord weighed down by several oval objects winded around the unfortunate appendage, but afterward his tail was let go. And then suddenly, horribly, the strange objects buzzed to life.

Sans yelped and jerked, almost believing he’d been shocked, but the buzzing continued and the aching ticklishness of it hit with the subtlety of a chainsaw. “oh _gaaaaaaaa_ haahahaaa—! _ohstaaaaaaaaahaap!_ stop _stop_ staaaaahaaaa—! aaaaaagghaaaahaaaa!” If he were with a playmate, he’d use a safe word. If it was an interrogation, he’d confess. But Sans didn’t know what this was; he didn’t know how to make this end. “i’ll do — aahaaahaaaaa! — ‘nythin’ pleeheheeeease!”

Already bargaining, and it had only been a few seconds. How shameful. But having to contend with possible hours of this agony shook him to the core.

Tail whipping and thrashing in wild blurs of motion, he dug clawed fingers into the chair’s padding, howling in distress, unable to budge from the position, failing to shake even one of the cruel, gizmos loose. Not only did the vibrations rattle deeply through the bone, but they seemed to chaotically bounce off one another — echoes of terrible tickles on top of already unbearable tickles. Worse still, it couldn’t stay confined to the one area, shooting up his spine and spreading lightly into his hips.

He couldn’t _stand_ it, but he was forced to bear it all the same. His only solace was that it _had_ to stop at some point. Eventually his body would just give out if it went on long enough, and he’d be carted away for a decently long recuperation period.

And as truly awful as it was, as much as time dragged its feet, a throb of dizziness finally pulled at his consciousness, voice having long tapered to near-silent squeaks and shoulder shaking wheezes. Hope of relief welled, and he surrendered wholeheartedly to the embrace of comatose oblivion.

Waves of vitalizing energy quickly snatched his hope away. It was only now Sans realized his cuffs had been injected with concentrated healing magic, and he was absorbing it before his strength hit rock-bottom.

While he roused, Sans wept at the unfairness of it all, voice surging back in a wail that returned to frenzied cachinnations.

As if that wasn’t enough, prickly brushes shoved between each toe, spinning in the vulnerable spaces while feathers delicately teased into the grooves of his back. Robbed of the safety of his headspace, the vestiges of sanity he tried so hard to hang onto was now defenseless prey, condemned to a slow and sadistic devouring.

It had to have been quadruple a normal session at the absolute minimum before the healing magic had been completely sapped and everything finally stopped. Though Sans was too much of a babbling, sniveling mess to have really kept track.

There was the sound of the door opening and clicks across the floor that stopped on either side of him. Contact on his still-throbbing tail instantly threw the skeleton into a panic, blubbering loudly and thrashing as much as his restriction would allow. Recognition briefly sparked that the cord was just being removed, but even the release stung with fresh tingles, and Sans was already so done.

The blindfold came off too, and Sans was pried from the chair, weakly clawing and struggling the entire way back to his cell.

He stilled, however, when the door opened. White walls, perfectly tucked sheets, not a feather or scrap of paper to be seen. Not a shred of evidence of his rebellion remained. Notably absent was a replacement for his book. There was something _new_ however.

And the sight of it terrified him.

Sans renewed his fight, whimpering and crying, unable to slow the bots as they delivered him to his bed. Metal panels framed his mattress on newly erected poles, looking — and feeling — like a shallow crib. His wrists and ankles were forced against the magnetic surface with resounding _snap_ s as he was very unfortunately and uncomfortably laid on his tail.

From his position there were very limited things to focus on now, one, of course, being the timer.

03:56:54:91

A third of his usual recovery time.

And as an extra twist of a knife, he could smell it before his eyes gravitated to the only other thing he could see. A plump bratwurst smothered in all the works he’d asked for. 

He’d thought deeper levels of hell were a myth, as only just one was sufficient. Now he was desperate not to find out how much farther he could descend.

00:00:00:00

_Woosh_.

Poised steps tapped across the floor, and a distinctly humanoid shape draped itself over the metal railing. Through a haze of tears, Sans could only make out a wicked smile.

“Hi, Sans!” the human said sprightly, reaching a hand down to scritch and pet against his cheek.

Stars help him, he leaned into the touch, so starved for contact from another living being that right now it didn’t matter who it came from or how. “n-nm … h-help …help me, p-please….”

The human raised his water bottle, giving it a hearty shake, the contents sloshing around inside.

His fingers twitched, arms jolting, unable to make a grab for it. His sockets were sore from the amount of tears he’d shed, thirst adding to the increasingly long list of his suffering.

Easing the bottle to his mouth, the human allowed him to drink about half before taking it away again. It was enough to take the edge off at least.

“wh-why’m i here…?” he begged to know. “who a-are you…?”

“You can’t guess?” The human was laughing.

Sans didn’t dare ask again. This person was obviously the mastermind of his captivity and therefore held sway over his comfort levels.

“You’ve seemed to have learned your lesson,” the human cooed, sounding fond, without even an ounce of regret. “You can have a bite of your hotdog, and then I think we should start your training, Sans! Maybe you’ll be able to earn back some of your privileges.” Fingers wiggled under his chin.

Sans couldn’t hold back a giggly whimper, physically submitting to the touch, fully aware that his mind was soon to follow.


End file.
